


Iron Sharpens Iron (Sandor Clegane/Reader)

by drpeppapigphd



Category: Game of Thrones (TV), game of thrones
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Romance, Awkward Romance, Battle, Consensual, Consensual Sex, Cunnilingus, Eventual Smut, F/M, Game of Thrones References, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Sandor Clegane, Reader-Insert, Romance, Sandor Clegane Lives, Sandor Clegane Needs a Hug, Sandor Clegane Swears, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Smut, Strong Female Characters, Sweet Sandor Clegane, Vaginal Fingering, Winterfell, game of thrones inspired, long fic, smut with plot, story-rich
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:19:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drpeppapigphd/pseuds/drpeppapigphd
Summary: You never thought you would you would fall in love with anyone, especially not Sandor Clegane. It turned out that he was full of surprises...
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Reader, Sandor Clegane/You
Comments: 12
Kudos: 93





	1. A Man They Call ‘The Hound’

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic work that I’ve ever published where anyone can read it. Please let me know what you think—and PLEASE send me your requests! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3 so much love for Sandor!
> 
> P.S. Read at your own risk— check the tags. Things will get spicy!
> 
> Gratefully— Dr. Peppa Pig, PhD

Sandor Clegane was not a man that you would have ever fancied when you were younger. No. In fact, he was far from the well-kept, elegant lads that you had your eye on. His hair was not carefully trimmed to fit under a helmet, seeing as he rarely wore one... and his face was not clean shaven, beaming with pride. Sandor was rugged, brutish even— and he was the opposite of prideful; Solemn and angry, he would sulk around—more aggressively than you had ever seen a man brood and pace—and he would do it in a way that simultaneously reflected his moderate self-hatred and keen sense of his unmatched physical abilities.   
No, Sandor Clegane was not a man that would have enticed you as a young lady; but now that you had grown into a woman and been out in the world, you knew that he was a far better man than any of the “Prince Charmings” you had chased after. He was strong, and brave, but could be quietly gentle and deeply attentive when he wanted to be. All you had to do was wear him down and convince him that you were being kind with no alterior motive—kind with the intent of fully knowing him and fully loving him all at once. 

You and he had been preparing for the Battle of Winterfell for some time, and were anxiously awaiting signs of the wight walkers’ arrival. After years of smithing as your father’s apprentice, you were able to fight with a surprising amount of power for your size. Men always underestimated you, which was actually a nice advantage in a sword fight, but you feared that they could be right when it came to defending a fortress from a siege of snarling dead reincarnated into savage predators. You underestimated your own abilities then, too. But regardless, you kept training and preparing because it meant that you got to spend time with Sandor. 

Sandor had been north of the wall with your fellow apprentice, Gendry, and several others. You had mended his armor and sharpened his sword before they left, which meant that you had spent several hours with him over the course of a couple weeks in close proximity... refitting his armor and constantly undressing and redressing him. It’s hard not to get close to someone when they have to bare their body before you. “Sorry,” he would say, “that you have to see this,” gesturing to his naked torso. You didn’t mind, of course, and were grateful that the heat from the flames and smoldering iron made it impossible to distinguish your flushed face from a blushing one. 

You had met Sandor before, you reminded him at his first fitting; Many years ago, in Kings Landing, when all hell broke loose at what you called the ‘assassination’ of Ned Stark. He had nearly ripped your arm off of your body trying to hoist you from the ground as you had been trampled by the stampede in the mass chaos. You remembered that he had thrown you over one shoulder, and your friend Jon’s little sister, Arya, over the other, and carried you out of the crowd. He set you down without even looking to see if you had landed on your feet, and ran off to save a screaming Sansa Stark from a horrifying situation. As you told him this story, his eyebrows furrowed and betrayed his apathetic demeanor. 

“I remember grabbing Arya and a lady’s maid from the ground. That was you? What were you doing in Kings Landing and why were you dressed like a... well...” he lowered his gaze. 

“A lady?” You chuckled at his sudden embarrassment. 

“You know what I mean.” 

“I do,” you continued. “Rob Stark sent me to keep an eye on Sansa. He hadn’t heard anything from her since she had gotten there, so he sent me to go as a maidservant. I had only just arrived when the slaughter began... I guess I passed it off convincingly enough for you to have believed my masquerade.” 

Sandor shrugged and a smirk donned his tired face. “I think anyone can appear royal or wealthy as long as they can wear the clothes and smile incessantly.”

You laughed at his snarky comment, but silently agreed. As a female blacksmith, you were used to dealing with the rich... Fathers who wanted new swords forged as presents for their sons’ birthdays, eager young lords who wanted to propose to their future fiancées with rings made of precious metals, and family matriarchs who came to have their jewels refitted or repaired to pass down to their daughters... the list went on. But you were never jealous of them. In fact, you pitied them in some ways. Smithing had made you strong and resilient; you had to stand up for yourself, mentally and physically, and you had to learn how to earn your living through that work. Nothing had been handed to you. Sandor knew this, and remarked that that was another reason that he would never have pictured you as a lady of the court. That, and you could never “smile incessantly.” 

The following fittings were filled with more conversation and shared moments of subdued laughter. You coaxed information out of Sandor about his childhood, and he felt surprisingly comfortable sharing it with you even though he put up a fuss about it. You never pressed too hard, but just hard enough that he could sense your genuine interest and he almost always gave in. You made a point of never calling him ‘The Hound,” as others did, and knew that he behaved the way he did as a defense mechanism. People he loved had betrayed him—hurt him and scarred him—and you had to earn his trust. 

When you both realized that you would be staying to defend Winterfell, he began training you. You weren’t a bad opponent for him, considering that he was one of the best fighters you had ever seen. You were agile and unpredictable, which made it difficult for him to keep up. Still, he looked forward to training every day because he cherished your relationship.

“(Y/N),” he would say, “you can’t show them mercy in the same way that you do a living person. You don’t have time to dance with them and wait for them to crack under pressure. They won’t. They have no feelings, no souls... they will kill you without a moments thought and they will have next to no trouble doing it if you spare them the time.”

You steeled yourself against the thought of a skeleton climbing up the walls of the fortress you had known your whole life, remains of a person that you might have passed on the street scaling cobblestone like a cat climbs a tree. 

“I won’t give them the time,” you growled as you lunged for Sandor, too quick for him to block your attack. Any time your weapon made contact with his armor, he would sigh and snicker. He could never be mad at you. Actually, he was proud of you, and you knew it. Just earning his respect was a feat, but moving past his defenses of snarkiness and the intimidating demeanor meant that he trusted you and appreciated your presence. 

When it became clear that the wight walkers would reach Winterfell in a matter of days, the atmosphere shifted, and so did your relationship with Sandor. Somehow, the urgency of it all pushed him to reveal a startling truth to you—and you had nothing to do but take it all in... and revel in it.


	2. Waiting for This Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Sandor share a moment that you both had been quietly waiting for...

“We think it’s going to take a few days, but that all depends on the how long it takes them to cross the creek on the other side of the forest,” you heard Jon explaining to the Dragon Queen who had recently arrived at the fortress. Meals were difficult to enjoy when all the talk was of war and death, but especially when you had to choke down unappetizing porridge at a table full of drunken men. 

“Aye, Cinderella,” Seamus would crow, “I’d like to know if there’s soot under that tunic, too.” 

As usual, you would roll your eyes and abandon the rest of your meal in exchange for some peace of mind and blessed quiet. Little did you know, Sandor would eat outside, purposely waiting for you to call it quits and escape for some fresh air. Instead of inviting you to eat with him like other men might, he hoped that the fates were in his favor and would bring you to him without having to risk rejection.

“Cool night out here, (Y/N)” he would call from his usual spot in the stable. You would always head that direction even before he shouted your name, hoping that he would be there waiting for you. 

“I knew I would find you here,” you’d tease as you sunk into the hay next to him. 

“How could you have guessed?” 

You returned your smirk and sat in comfortable silence. 

“(Y/N),” Sandor began. After several false-starts and the deepest look of desperate concentration that you had ever seen cross his face, he heaved a sigh. “Nevermind.”

You raised one eyebrow and maintained your stare, hoping that he would continue. But after several minutes of silence, you spoke, praying that he would say whatever it was that was on his mind. 

“You know, now is not the time to be keeping secrets, Clegane.” 

“I beg to differ. Since we’re all about to die, it’s better to save our secrets and take them to the grave so that no one has to die humiliated and alone.”

“I’d argue that it would be better to die without having to regret the things we left unsaid... such as whatever it was you were about to tell me... or ask...”

“Fine. Only because I have a feeling that this is the last time that we will sit in this stable together.” He got quiet. That same, focused look overtook his face once more and you leaned in eagerly. 

“I’m afraid that I’ve wasted my life up until this point,” he blurted out. “I love war, and killing evil men—and sometimes innocent men, too—and I think that this is what I was destined to become,” he gestured at his enormous body and scarred face. “But what if I could have lived a far simpler life, with less gore, and less hatred, and maybe a job that didn’t alienate anyone I’ve ever cared about...” 

You were surprised by his words, and watched him carefully as they poured out of his mouth like he had been dying to say them for his entire life. 

“I’m angry at the gods for bringing me you and then immediately following the gift with the most dangerous war that has ever been fought.”

Now you understood. You felt your cheeks grow warm and your palms began to sweat, things that hadn’t happened to you since you were fifteen and acclimating to the extreme heat of the smithery. Closing the distance between your bodies, you gingerly shifted over towards him in the hay and enclosed his hand in yours. 

“I am grateful that this war brought me you, and I’m angry that it seems to have robbed us of years of happiness. But I know that your life was not a waste of time, Sandor,” you spoke softly. “I am glad that we’ve had this time together... and the war hasn’t happened yet. With the amount of training I’ve had, you’d think I could do enough surviving for the both of us.” 

He laughed gently at your attempt at levity, but couldn’t help reaching out to cradle your face in his giant, rough, familiar hands. Placing your own calloused, but petite hands over his, you shut your eyes and breathed in the moment. After you had sat like this for some time, Sandor leaned in and kissed you, urgently and with a surprising amount of force. Before he could stop you from falling, you had gone from a sitting position to laying totally flat on your back in the hay.

“Sorry—“ he started, but you stopped him by wrapping an arm around his neck and pulling his lips back down to your own. “Don’t apologize,” you commanded, “I’m not a fragile person.” 

He returned your kiss with passion as his hands roamed under your back and wrapped around your ribs. “This isn’t just because we’re going to war, right?” You asked between kisses. 

“I’ve been waiting for this since the moment I walked into that smithery,” he replied, his chest rumbling with authority as he explained his position on the situation. You could feel his heartbeat against your own chest, and knew he was telling the truth. It was racing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all are enjoying this so far! FAIR WARNING: things start to get spicy in the next chapter.


	3. Stay Warm (!Explicit!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor surprises you with words you longed to hear...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~*~*~*~Things are hEaTiNg Up!!!!~*~*~*~*

  
You had never been in love before this, at least not as far you knew. And based on the way that you felt about Sandor, you were pretty certain about this claim. As he lay entwined with you in the hay, trailing kisses across your collar bone and all the way up the other side of your neck, you remembered the day of bone-chilling cold and the sweet, quiet moment that you knew: 

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You’ve got to stand your ground, (Y/N),” he asserted, “or the blood, sweat, and tears that you’ve put into training over the last several days won’t matter.”

You were listening, sure... but you were also highly aware of his enormous hands gripping your hips as he braced you from behind. You were standing in front of a fencing dummy that was typically used to train children. You didn’t have time to be insulted by this because it was no ordinary dummy. Sandor had covered it with tar in the places that would not warrant deadly strikes. If you chopped off an arm, it would do significant damage, but the victim would live until they bled out. With the wight walkers, you had to strike for places that your freshly forged dragon glass blade would make contact with bone. 

“When I say so, I want you to make your first attack from here. I’m not going to let you move your body more than necessary because it is important that you keep your distance. They are incredibly fast and once you kill one, you’ll be on to the the next.” 

You swallowed hard and dug the balls of your feet into the ground. With a firm shake of the head, to confirm your preparation, Sandor cleared his throat. After several seconds of being on the edge of attack, he barked out an aggressive “now!”   
You lunged for the dummy, imagining a skeleton that you would see with your own eyes all too soon. Your blade made contact with a sliver of exposed model skin—tarless and vulnerable— in one swift motion. Your moment of satisfaction was cut short when the dummy became uprooted and its fake sword spun around with the rest of its torso and returned the force with which you had struck. The sparring sword crashed into your left eye and sliced into your eyebrow, also delivering a pretty heavy blow to your temple. If it weren’t for Sandor holding you in place, you would have hit the ground immediately, which is a recipe for disaster. 

You hissed and hurled quiet insults out of frustration with yourself and the situation, but mostly our of sheer embarrassment. You were so flustered, in fact, that you hadn’t noticed the look of alarm on Sandor’s face. “Seven hells, (Y/N), are you alright? Can you see?” He had removed his glove and was carefully applying pressure to left side of your face. Even though he really needed to be concerned about your eye, his hand was so large that it cupped the entire side of your face and then some. 

You grimaced and squeaked, “I can see, but I’m actually rather dizzy.” Your stomach seemed to flip and you could hear a buzzing sound, increasing as you became aware of the pressure building in your ears. Just as quickly as the dummy and fought back with surprising animation, Sandor had swept you up and carried you in to see the Maester. You couldn’t remember anything other than gripping his enormous chest as you slipped out of consciousness. 

What seemed like minutes but was clearly several hours later, based on the calm dark of the night and the number of candles burning in the room when you woke up, you were able to open your right eye and felt more stable than before. Your left eye had been thoroughly bandaged, but you sensed that you wouldn’t be able to open it anyways—it was obviously swollen shut, and aching. However, any sense of pain was muted when you saw him. Sandor was sitting next to your bed in a chair, with his head resting on his fist, sleeping soundly. His other hand however, was holding yours. He had stayed with you. You squeezed his hand softly, surprised at the tears that began to burn in your eyes. Stirring slightly, his eyes opened narrowly, and then wider when he remembered the situation. A smile—a full, genuine smile—appeared across his face, something you knew was rare and priceless. 

“(Y/N)... I’m glad to see you’ve regained consciousness.” Then a beat...   
“Do you want to sleep here or in your own bed?” His gruff voice sounded strange in contrast to his nurturing words, but it was music to your ears. 

“I’m okay here for tonight...” you began, but then biting your lip, you held back the rest of what you desperately wanted to ask... and he could tell. 

“Are you sure? That wasn’t very convincing, lass.” 

“I’m sure... but will you stay with me?” You scooted over on the small bed and made room for him to join you. Unsurpringly, he raised an eyebrow and began to argue. 

“I don’t mind staying. I had planned to. But I can sit in this chair just fine... you don’t have to invite me to share your bed, (Y/N).” 

You blushed, but remained bold, insisting on what you wanted. “Please? Keep me warm?” Holding his gaze with your one eye, you pleaded with the old gods and the new that he wouldn’t reject you. Instead of responding to your question, he clumsily climbed into bed next to you and you rested your head on his chest. When you awoke the next morning, his tree branch of an arm was holding you close, and you soaked in the moment just a little bit longer.   


~*~*~*~*~*~

Now, laying in the hay, you had the same man—the kind of man who would hold your body to his as he slept—flush against your torso. Your eye had healed significantly, though you were pretty sure that the scar across it and its brow were there to stay. In some ways, you could tell that Sandor liked it; you thought he might have found it interesting, but he confided later that it reminded him of the night that he held you while you slept.   
He was planting light kisses on your skin with his lips, not something that you expected from such a hardened man. His rough hand pushed under your tunic and up, peeling the straw-covered fabric back from your skin and exposing your stomach up to your chest. His dark eyes flitted up to you before pushing the linen further, exposing your breasts, nipples hardened from the cold night air and the thrill pulsing through your veins. A quiet moan escaped your lips as he took one in his mouth and massaged the other with urgency. You wanted him... needed him. Badly.


	4. Bliss (!Explicit!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Sandor are closer than ever before...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is !spicy!, my friends. Enjoy.

“Sandor,” you pleaded, “enough teasing. I want you.” Snickering in response to your lustful whines, he worked deftly to unbuckle his belt as you pulled your tunic the rest of the way over your head. 

“I didn’t imagine that you would be so eager to fuck, (Y/N),” he growled. Just those words alone elicited a moan from your lips and a stirred a warmth in your lower abdomen. 

“I’m never eager, I’m a strategizer” you panted as his hands returned to your body and slid down your hips to your thighs. “But you make me want to throw all of my plans out the window.” 

Digging his fingers into the flesh of your thighs, he pulled them apart and slid your body closer to to his. “My plan is to make you mine. How’s that for a strategy?”

Before you could make a witty comment, your breathe hitched in your throat as his mouth surrounded your clit, sucking and licking with no reservation. Back arching and hips grinding, you took in every ounce of pleasure from his untamed mastery of your sex. “You like that, don’t you...” Every word he purred sent shivers down your spine and reminded you that he was only getting started. Your breaths became shallow and rapid as you squirmed under his tongue; your passion only grew when he slid one of his massive fingers into you and began to pump in and out. His name rolled off of your lips like honey and you were nearing the edge. 

Sandor slid his hand up to your heaving chest, just below your neck, and it made your flushed skin prickle with energy. Looking you dead in the eye with no reserve, he whispered “tell me what you’re going to do, (Y/N).”

Teetering on the edge of an orgasm, you could hardly speak, but you managed to rasp out “I’m going to cum for you.” Sandor returned his mouth to your clit, sucking and circling it with his tongue, while working his finger furiously. You couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Fuck!” Toe-curling and hip-bucking ensued as waves of pleasure racked your body, your eyes squeezed shut by a force so unbearable that you held your breathe as it happened. When you opened your eyes moments later, you were met with Sandor’s face, grinning in delight, then his lips on your lips, wet with your own cum. 

“My turn,” you demanded, grasping for his cock. You anticipated that Sandor’s length would be impressive, considering that he was mammoth of man to begin with. However, when your hands found it, you were surprised to find that it wasn’t as large as you had imagined. It was even bigger, and rock-solid. 

He hummed as you wrapped your hands around it. Rolling over so that he was laying down, you switched places and straddled his legs. Sandor’s dark eyes met yours once more and you slowly lowered your head to tease the tip of his member with your tongue. He bit his bottom lip in frustration, eyes begging you to take it into your mouth— and you did. 

“Fuck, (Y/N), that’s so good.” 

Your head bobbed up and down as his cock moved in and out of your mouth, your tongue circling it when you could handle any extra movement. It was so large that you struggled to take his full length in your throat, but boy did you try. Feeling it throb and twitch as you worked, you could tell that he was getting close. 

You were surprised to find his hand gripping your hair with a sense of urgency. “I want you to ride me, (Y/N); I can’t wait any longer,” Sandor commanded through clenched teeth. He was finding it more difficult to suppress his moans by the minute and had to have you. 

Shifting upwards so that you were positioned over his cock, you mounted him carefully, a gasp escaping your lips as he stretched you unbelievably wide. You shuddered as your body adjusted, hips grinding involuntarily. He hissed at the new sensation and his hands flew to your waist to hold you up.

You rocked your hips and cried out in ecstasy, while Sandor murmured curses under his breathe. You thought about how much had changed in such a short time, and how you never would have imagined that you could feel this way about him; your eyes met his and you knew that he was thinking the same thing. That was enough to send you over the edge for a second time, and Sandor’s hard cock filled your cunt with his own warm cum. In seconds, you had collapsed onto his chest, body shaking and hearing his rapid heartbeat in your ears. He pulled you tightly to his chest, trying to gather himself as well, but also trying to soak in the feeling of your cunt pulsing around his spent member. Finally, after a long bit of contented silence, your heart rates had turned to normal and you were both gazing into each other’s eyes once more. 

“I feel like I should pray to the old gods and the new that this isn’t a dream,” he whispered, uncharacteristically vulnerable—which seemed to be the nature of the night. You were quick to reassure him that this was very real. 

“I’m right here,” you whispered into his neck. His fingers grazed over your scarred eyebrow, lulling you to sleep. During a long season of war, loss, and violence, it was a rare moment of peace and bliss. 

After you had drifted off, Sandor wrapped you up in his cloak and carried you to his room in the fortress so that you all wouldn’t freeze in the hay overnight. He moved gently and with the great care that he only reserved for precious cargo. Both of you remembered this night often and with deep reverence.


	5. A Prayer for the Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death arrives at the gates of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry that I’ve used the word “you” (& yours) like 1,000 times. :/ It’s really hard to navigate this POV without doing that. Also, this chapter isn’t necessarily spicy/explicit, but I think it’s important character development! 
> 
> I hope you’re all enjoying this— please let me know! :-)

You were standing before you even realized you were awake.Sandor had ripped you up and off of the bed that you were sharing in his quarters. At first you thought that he had changed his mind about you and had been sobered by the cold and the wee hours of the morning, but you quickly sensed the fear in his eyes and the force with which he gripped your arms. 

“They’re here.”

The remaining fog of sleep vanished in an instant as you processed his words. Wight walkers.

“We must move quickly,” Sandor murmured, barely above a whisper. You could tell that his mind was already out on the frozen tundra beyond Winterfell’s walls, dreading the horrors of the coming hour. 

You shut your mouth—fixing your jaw that had dropped subconsciously—and rushed to put on your gear. As Sandor put on his armor, you did, too—donning the heavy sword belt and adjusting the scabbard with anxious fingers. You had never been hesitant to wield it before. All of the training you had endured up to that moment was not enough to keep you from flinching at the thought of swinging your weapon at a dead body reincarnated. 

You pulled you leather gloves up to your elbows, adding another layer of protection for your arms as you prepared to use them to defend your home. Layers and layers of thick, black leather and wool were snug against your skin, but you still felt a cold chill throughout your body. You hands shook fiercely as you tried to pull your hair out of your face. Suddenly, you sensed Sandor behind you, where he gently placed his hand over yours. He pulled your hair back and began to wrap it with the leather string that you had failed to entwine successfully. 

“You are strong,” he said, weaving the string around the ponytail. “You are quick,” he reminded you, tying it in place. “You are ready,” he asserted, though that one you found hardest to believe. 

Turning to look at him and wrapping your arms around his waist, you tilted your head back to look up at him—studying his face in case it was the last time you would see it. He had dark, hooded eyes under thick brows, which were permanently furrowed. The right side of his face, famously scarred, was a rough juxtaposition to the left, which had been smoothed by years of sleeping on the same side every night. His long brown hair and beard cast shadows on the angles of his face and neck. He wasn’t classically beautiful, no. He was more than that. He was his soul manifested on the outside: battered, but beautiful—ungentle, but quietly good. 

“Don’t you dare die on me, Sandor Clegane” you whispered, trying to ignore the throat-burning, eye-stinging, chest-pressuring dread. You both shuffled quickly out the door and into the chaos.

Jon Snow tore past you in the hallway, followed by Melisandre, and Sir Davos, but you all sprinted off in the opposite direction towards the back of the fort. Practically leaping down the tight stairwell, you both make it the courtyard where people are working frantically to get to their stations. 

“I have to stand at the gate with the others, but you will be of most help up on the wall. Find Samwell and help him keep track of the orders. If they start coming over the walls”—the thought of it causing him to pause and swallow hard—“fight like you trained to, run if you have to. I’ll find you.” With that, he gripped your face with both hands and kissed you forcefully. If you hadn’t known better, you would have thought it was a goodbye. Before you could say anything, he was off, running for the gate and away from any remaining shreds of safety that were left. 

What happened next was a blur. You were perched on the walls of the fortress with dozens of other frightened soldiers, peering out into the darkness and waiting for a sign. After it began, it was a mad frenzy of slashing and screaming, fire and blood, death and more death. You watched men that you knew as boys meet their ends at the hands of those who had been dead and decaying for years. Your home faced destruction you couldn’t have dreamed of, and you could see fire blazing all around the fortress as Daenerys and Jon flew dragons around the premises like a nightmare in motion. You thought of Sandor, on the ground, surrounded by fire, and imagined the ways that his deepest fears were being realized in front of him. 

You wanted desperately to reach out and touch him, but settled on a prayer:

“Holy Gods, I know that Winterfell is not a forest,” you whispered desperately, “but I pray that you would protect its people. I pray that good would prevail in the night, and that fire would overcome ice and leave its tenants unburnt. Save mankind, my Lords. The dead cannot win. And be with my beloved as he fights for the living.” A deep ache filled your chest. “Let him find me like he said he would.”


	6. Winter Has Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Battle of Winterfell arrives, and you must face the fates...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so long! :-( 
> 
> Warnings for blood, needles/stitching (?). 
> 
> Also, Tormund!

You fought desperately to keep your eyes open, leaning against the stone wall of the lookout on the west end of Winterfell’s gate; the sting of smoke, gravity of sleep deprivation, and exhaustion from battle made for a devilish cocktail that would prevent any further action. No, you couldn’t swing your sword one more time. Not even if your life depended on it. There was so much blood on your body—some of it your own, some not—that you couldn’t even tell where you were wounded. Aches met numbness in places you didn’t know you could even feel pain. 

Things had gotten eerily quiet, and you realized that it was because the scuttling of boney feet on stone had stopped. “Thank the Gods,” you thought to yourself. An answer to prayer—that mankind would defeat the dead. Content with knowing that some of your friends and neighbors would wake up the next day and be able to imagine a future among the living, you resigned yourself to your fate. Just as you were about to close your eyes and wait until you drifted off from consciousness, a blaze of red hair swooped into your line of vision. Tormund Giantsbane.

“We don’t have time for you to sit here and die, (Y/N),” he barked, voice raspy from screaming in combat. Tormund’s candid takes on those around him always made you snicker. Now, all you could manage was to look up at him to meet his eyes, barely holding his gaze. Once he realized how badly you were injured, his tone changed. 

“You’re really not allowed to die on me, you hear?” After haphazardly inspecting you for injuries and coming to the same conclusion that you had, his eyes snapped up to yours again. “I can’t tell where you’re bleeding from, but I can tell that you need a Maester. The battle is over and we’ve won. There are many folks that need care, but I think they’ll want to keep you around to repair all of the weaponry.” 

“Straight to the point, as always,” you murmured, as Tormund slung you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. You let out a yelp as he did so, simultaneously unsurprised and unimpressed at his lack of gentility. As he made his way from the lookout to the Maester’s chambers, you saw flashes of smoldering flames turned to ash, bodies strewn about, people working frantically to help one another. 

You pushed every thought of Sandor from your mind as best you could, but you had reached your breaking point then. What if he was laying somewhere waiting—like you were— for someone to rescue him from the rubble? No, you wouldn’t think like that. Couldn’t think like that. Before you could ask Tormund if he had seen Sandor, you were already being shuffled into the Maester’s makeshift surgery. The motion of being thrown (once again) from Tormund’s shoulder onto what would have been the dining table was enough to make you see stars. 

“Gently, sir! Gently...” the Maester scolded, but his kind eyes thanked Tormund anyways. The mountain man gave your hand a a squeeze, nodded to your healer, and then bolted out the door, most likely on his way to find a drink before confronting more of the horrors that lay before him.   
  
“Now,” he began, “we must figure out where you are bleeding, my dear.” You had relinquished any control at this point, eyes clamped shut and prepared for the poking and prodding. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears and your mouth felt dry. The Maester was agile and incredibly sharp for his age, and he had a calming presence that was accompanied by the sight of his flowing ivory robes. So used to seeing men clad in armor—cold, and hard—you always reveled at the Maester’s softened visage. However, nothing could tempt you to open your eyes at that moment. 

“(Y/N)?” A familiar voice shouted frantically, bursting though the door. 

Except that. That voice could jumpstart your heart if it had been dormant for ages. 

Your eyes flew open as your head whipped around to face Sandor. Apart from a few cuts on his neck, he appeared to be physically sound. Of course you knew he was probably aching and bruised underneath his armor, but the blood was limited, and that was a good sign. Your lips parted to breathe his name, and you remembered the prayer that you said for him—your beloved. No sound came, but you felt your entire being soften immediately. 

He had moved to your side and kneeled so that he could be at your eye level as you were splayed out on the table. “I told you I would find you, but I had hoped it wouldn’t be on the Maester’s dining table bleeding like a stuck pig.” 

“What are you talking about? This is, ah”—you took a sharp inhale as the Maester pried one of your boots off—“exactly the reunion I had pictured.” Although you suppressed a giggle, Sandor’s smirk was accompanied by panicked eyes. 

“What can I do?” He asked the Maester, rising from his lunge to tower over the modest furniture—and people— in the tiny room. You could hear the urgency in his voice, the worry... and it made your stomach twist a thousand different ways. 

“I need to get the rest of her layers off,” explained the Maester hesitantly, “and then we’ll know what the next step is.” Sandor quickly got to work removing the rest of your armor, then the Maester used a scythe to hack your last few layers of clothing off. There you lay, cold, naked as your name day and barely conscious. 

“It’s just as I feared,” the Maester whispered to Sandor, “I have to disinfect the wound at her side and stitch it back up, or she’s going to bleed to death. You’re going to have to hold her still because I’m out of milk of the poppy.” Begrudgingly, Sandor agreed; even in your semi-comatose state, you could tell that this was causing him pain. But you also knew that he would never leave your side. 

A visceral hiss escaped your mouth as icy liquid met your bare skin—alcohol, to disinfect—and your fingers clenched around the edge of the table. You felt Sandor’s massive hand meet your rib cage and hold you in place. He was careful, but firm, and he radiated heat. The Maester began stitching and you tried in vain not to squirm while he did it. Your hand grasped fruitlessly towards Sandor, until his free hand entwined with yours, then he pulled it in to hold against his chest. 

After what seemed like an eternity, the Maester had finished his needlework and bandaged you up. You were on the brink of sleep then, drifting in and out, so Sandor wrapped you in his cloak and—thanking the Maester once more—left his chambers so that more soldiers could be brought in for healing. He carried you to his own room, where you had been awakened by the Night King’s arrival only hours before, and placed you gently on his bed. Laying down next to you, he watched you closely.

“Sandor,” you whispered quietly, hand groping the air for him once more. He caught it softly and pulled it down to meet his heart. You were satisfied then. You two fell asleep quickly—a deep, dreamless slumber— on a night that you would both remember for years to come. The next morning, you woke before him, and looked at his priceless face—rough, burdened, and still: ethereal. Finally stirring, his eyes fluttered open and then softened when they met yours. After staring into one another’s eyes, reflecting on the event of the last 24 hours, Sandor spoke quietly:

“(Y/N)... I think it’s time for a bath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, I’ve had so much fun writing this and would love to keep going (I have a few ideas!!), but I don’t want to keep up with this story line if you all would rather see something new. Let me know what you’re thinking in the comments! <3


	7. Bath Pt. I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sweet moment before a ~hot~ bath (if you know what I mean)...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda spicy, but not explicit— quite a bit of romantic fluff. If that’s not your thing (:-(), just wait until pt. II.

You hadn’t taken a bath with someone else in attendance since you were a small child, and rarely sought out any company for the event. But after the events of the night before had left you barely unable to climb in and out of the bed without assistance, you were especially grateful for Sandor’s presence. You watched as he filled a cauldron with water, then turned to face the fireplace. He hesitated, and for the first time since you and he had known each other, you saw him intimidated by flames licking at the edge of the fireplace, only inches away from where he would have to reach in and hang the large kettle from its hook to warm. 

“Sandor,” you began, and he snapped out of his trance to look at you; “I can do that if you’d like.” He thought about it for a short moment, then shook his head quickly, placing the cauldron on its iron hook, and withdrawing his hand more speedily than you thought possible for such a large man. When he had been in the smithery with you, it was possible to keep him in a corner far away from your stone ovens and melting pots. Now, he was haunted by the beast in his own chambers, forced keep the blaze crackling day and night to stay alive... a cruel irony. 

“You shouldn’t be lifting such things or you’ll destroy the Maester’s valiant attempt at needlework,” he snickered, clearly trying to reassure you that he was fine, but failing to be fully convincing. His deep brown eyes looked sad, almost like he could tell that you felt such a deep sorrow for his hurt, but they softened the longer he gazed into yours from his seat on the edge of the bed. Rising to stand, you winced and gritted your teeth, but kept moving around the bed to the tub, eyes locked on Sandor’s. He reached for his cloak that you were loosely wrapped in, and gently traced his fingers up your arms to the edges of the cloth. He pulled it off of you slowly, revealing your bare skin underneath inch by inch. 

“I am so glad that you are here, Sandor,” you confessed quietly. “I wasn’t sure if we would survive the night, but here we are, in the land of the living...” He pressed a soft kiss to your collarbone as he peeled back more of the cloak, a shiver ran through your body at the contact and the cold of the room. 

“I never imagined that I could love someone enough to fear their death more than my own,” you continued. “But, last night, all I could think of was you standing outside the gate and every swing of my sword reminded me of training.” A lump in your throat caught you by surprise as Sandor’s lips left your neck and he stood up straight. “You told me that I was strong, and I did my best to believe you. But I think it’s you,” your voice strained against the burn in your throat and eyes. “You make me strong.” 

Sandor’s face was more expressionless that you had seen it since the first time you met, apart from the ever-present furrow of his brow. Suddenly, and unexpectedly, he dropped to his knees in front of you; hands gripping your hips, carefully avoiding your bandaged wounds, but grasping firmly. “Don’t say that unless you mean it, (Y/N), otherwise I’l make a fool out of myself,” he growled, an odd juxtaposition to the gleam in his eye. Confusion crossed your face and he could see it. 

“Don’t say what? That you’re the only reason I’m alive? I will not say anything less than what I believe,” you quipped, frustrated at his combative words in contrast with his submissive stance. 

“No”—he started softly, then froze, eyes boring holes into yours. You realized that what you initially dubbed an odd lack of expression was actually the face of shock, and the intensity of his gaze registered with you. Now you understood. 

You had told him that you loved him, something that he had probably never heard from a place of sincerity—if at all—in his life. 

“Say it again, (Y/N), if you mean it.” 

“I love you, Sandor. I’ve never meant anything more earnestly.”

You fought back tears as his forehead came to rest softly on your lower abdomen and your breathing quickened. Your hands came to rest on either side of his head, holding him to your center gently. After a deep silence, his head tilted back and his eyes met yours, brimming with tears, a sight that you assumed was more rare than you could possibly imagine. 

“Then it’s yours... my mind, my sword, my body, my life.” 

Before you knew it, he was standing again, gripping your face—all gentleness abandoned—and kissing you fiercely like he had never done before. You felt the cloak pooling around your feet as the last bits of clinging fabric abandoned their hold. You shivered once more and he pulled away. Turning to retrieve the cauldron, he wrapped his hand in the bolt of wool hanging on the fire place and unhooked the pot without hesitation. Steam billowed out of the tub as the water filled it, and you shook your hair out of its ponytail with a tug at the string. 

“Tell me, Sandor,” you purred, your voice dripping with an uncharacteristic amount of seduction as you stepped into the tub and carefully slinked into a sitting position; “...does that make my body yours?” 


	8. Bath Pt. II (!Explicit! Finale)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Sandor take a ~bath~ together and it gets VERY warm...

The hot water in the tub was nothing compared to the electricity that buzzed under Sandor’s fingertips as he ran them lightly up your arm; he was kneeling next to the tub, rough face inches away from yours, and his chest was heaving with each breath. You tugged at his collar and looked up at him through your eyelashes. 

“Off,” you demanded, giving his shirt another tug. He unlaced his belt and vest, and untucked the linen shirt that he’d been wearing since the night before. It was stained with blood and dark mud, and so was his skin underneath. He crossed his massive arms and pulled the shirt over his head, displacing his long brown hair and then letting it fall back into a curtain around his face. You swallowed hard, growing even more impatient for his touch. 

“It’s going to be a tight squeeze for me to climb in there with you, (Y/N),” he grumbled. You held his gaze while he unbuckled his boots and yanked them off. He finally unlaced his pants and pulled them off slowly, torturously, revealing his muscular legs and unbelievable length. Your core ached for contact as he climbed into the tub. It was, in fact, a very tight fit, but he was able to take a seat behind you and wrapped his legs around either side of your torso. Careful of your bandaged wound, you leaned back into his chest and shuddered as your skin met his. 

Sandor let out a low moan as your hand snaked behind you and up his neck; warm water ran down your arm and you could feel his hardness pressing into the base of your spine. One large hand roamed up the middle of you torso then cupped a breast, while the other wrapped around your neck tilting your head backwards so he could kiss you deeply. You moaned into his mouth, writhing under his touch. 

“Careful there, lass,” he whispered, “don’t destroy the Maester’s handiwork.” The hand around your neck ran smoothly down your body and under the surface of the water, and elicited a gasp as it grazed your clit. Your head rested in the curve of Sandor’s neck, and you could feel him swallow his lust.

“Fuck,” you whimpered quietly as his fingers went to work, and you felt sparks race to every nerve ending. 

“Shouldn’t you be washing off?” he teased, pinching the nipple that was already hard in his hand. 

You plunged a rag into the tub and then began to ring it out at your collar bone, letting the water rush over his hand and down your torso, earning a small moan from deep in his throat. A smile crossed your face as you soaked the rag again, whining at the increasing heat in your abdomen. This time, you rubbed the rag up and down his thigh, starting at the knee that was jutting out of the water by your side, and getting closer to his hip every time. 

“Sandor,” you hissed, “I’m—ah—so close... fuck!” You nearly bit through your lip as your body reached climax, and you felt him holding you tight to his body, chin digging into your shoulder. After somewhat catching your breath, you reached behind you, even though it was tricky and found his rock-hard member. 

Humming at your grip and ragged breaths, you could tell that he was already close from the grinding of your body against his and the amount of control he had over you in this position. The massive hand returned to your neck, but this time he squeezed as his kissed you, and the lack of air made your head spin. You choked out a soft moan, which pushed him closer to the edge. 

“You like that, don’t you? You’re mine, (Y/N)” he grunted through clenched teeth. “Say it. Tell me you’re mine.” 

“I’m yours, Sandor. Always.”

You felt him shudder behind you and a string of expletives exited his lips in short succession. Sinking back into his solid frame and feeling a soft kiss on top of your head, you shut your eyes and reveled in the moment. 

“You make me crazy,” he snickered as his hair brushed over your shoulder. 

A smile crossed your face as you chuckled softly. “I try,” you teased. Relief washed over you as realization started to sink in: the war was over, you were both alive, and you had the rest of your lives to make each other crazier. As if he was thinking the same thing, Sandor hummed behind you and pulled you in closer. 

It would become the first of many shared baths with kisses, one of many moments of an unbreakable bond. You loved one another fiercely and selflessly for decades to come— a hound and blacksmith, iron that sharpened iron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading! I hope you all enjoyed this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it. Please send me your requests, commentary, and everything in between! I hope you’re doing well during this trying time and that you find some comfort in stories like this. My inbox is always open! :-) <3 xoxo


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